Rogue
by cosmicdaisies
Summary: AU. James Potter, British Intelligence gets sent a "kill list".


_I was watching Mission Impossible and got inspired :-)_

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 **A Pint**

Bond Street stood firmly amidst the buzzing throng of people; women in heels and confident gazes, men flustered in their suits as they withheld profanities on the phone and children, red in the face and teary eyed. They all marched down the street, in synchronised chaos. The smell of exhaust pipes and cigarette smoke that was so familiar to the city, clung onto the air and settled in the crevices of Victorian buildings in black webs of dirt. Though, one couldn't properly inspect the dirt as the very fast paced atmosphere allowed for little respite and so, he was forced to keep moving - head down, feet mechanically walking the bruised road he knew better than his house. "Bollocks." He'd say when someone stepped on his heels or barged into his shoulders. The setting sun threw hues of orange and pink onto Bond Street, creating dancing shadows of passer-by's and a hard beat of sunlight on the gaps of pavement between feet. It gave a very convincing illusion of a warm day. It was two degrees in fact, and the cracked pavement damp with a mild case of hail stones.

James Potter weaved between figures, tucked warmly into a trench coat and his grandfathers scarf; He'd been walking for ages, trying to get a great Boxing Day bargain to send to his girlfriends as late Christmas presents. Or so, that's what he was going to tell his boss. He had the story down to the last pinprick and good as a liar he was, he still felt nervous. There was something about lying to your boss, whom, if discovered the true reason of your extended lunch break could have you without a job in a matter of seconds, that was (obviously frightening but also,) exhilarating. James felt like he was sixteen years old again, as if he had done something utterly moronic and brilliant, but couldn't tell an authoritative soul. Of course, the stakes were much higher now and even the wistful memory of his teenage hood, wasn't enough to ebb this haunting thought from James' mind. It was one of those moments where he had nothing to gain, but everything to lose; yet the ripple of a sense of personal duty outweighed the possible implications and just like that, James agreed. Bloody idiot, he shook his head. That's what he was, a bloody idiot.

He made a split decision to turn left and stalked into a shy pub, hanging off the corner of a side road. 'The Lions tavern' was usually near empty during the week, not because of its horrible name but because their chef was absolutely horrible at his profession and so, produced equally horrible food. The booze, however, was grand and James rather liked to drink his lager in solitary. He settled in his usual spot, a small table by a stained window sporting the Royal arms of England; so that he could drink, think about how he so desperately needed a holiday and watch distorted figures rush by. And he did just that.

Three quarters of a pint in, James had his coat off, his feet up and was tapping on his phone. A couple more people had walked into the pub, the usuals, he recognised. Builders, recently unemployed or divorced men looking for a cheap drink and naturally, drunks. James lifted his drink to Hammered Henry on the other side of the room.

"I don't think he can see you, or if he can, can't register anything you're doing...you know, because of the liquor" Three tables over, a woman with a bottle of red wine to herself said. James saw her hair first, it was a vibrant shade in-between strawberry blonde and red was thrown into two pony tails on either side of her face, and then her black rimmed, bottle green eyes.

"He's actually a mate." He turned away from the striking redhead and took a gulp of his beverage. "...that is to say, he's in here a lot."

"And I suppose you are too?" Her husky voice questioned. While talking to very-attractive-redheads ranked very highly in James' list of hobbies, the twenty four year old was in the worst possible mood to do so, he felt crap and looked like hell too; dark crescents hung underneath his hazel eyes and only one cheek was shaved. Usually, he was attractive, but not in the mediocre way that everyone aimed to be. While he had the chiselled jaw, tanned skin and full lips it wasn't the defining point of his allure, instead it was the way his chiselled jaw locked and eyes hardened when he was concentrating, how his full lips smirked devilishly, the faded scars on his cheek, a slight crook in his otherwise perfect nose but most of all- the (usual) mirth hidden beneath the golden brown flecks of his eyes. His face wasn't just cover boy pretty, it had character. He hadn't always been attractive, he used to be gawky: all arms and elbows, but still, he held himself as if he were, he was just so, unapologetically James and his confidence resonated and acted like a magnet. Today, though, he looked about as gloomy as the weather; damp floors, grey skies and cold wind, which was pretty ironic considering he had nice, tanned skin that was usually glowing but currently sported a very sallow quality. He just wanted this day to be over.

"This is sort of my local quiet spot, work tends to get very shit, very quickly." He replied sombrely.

Unfazed by his clipped reply, the redhead downed an ambitious amount of red wine before asking, "So what is it that you do? Aside from brooding all day long in a smelly pub."

He sighed heavily and looked the girl. If he hadn't registered exactly how good looking she was in his brief glance of her earlier on, he did now. She was extremely good looking – triple-take-down-the-street-and-drool-a-little sort of good looking. Her plump lips were painted a tantalising red. She was all soft angles and striking features and James briefly wondered if she was seeing someone. Briefly.

"Contractor" He lied. "Brilliant pay but it's a bloody nuisance." The unnamed woman three tables down, pursed her glossy, red lips. She slowly looked the man three tables away up and down.

"Are you Oxford or Cambridge?" She asked, absolutely positive in her assumption that he went to either or.

"Cambridge, Pembroke college." Another gulp of Lager.

"Hm. Thought so. Only a Cantabrigian would have the luxury of complaining about a well paid job." Though her words would suggest otherwise, there was no judgement in her voice but instead, hidden mirth and sarcasm that James couldn't help deem flirtatious.

"Are you-"

"No." She cut in shortly, "didn't do the whole uni thing. My older sister went to Cambridge too, actually. Corpus Christi though." She had an American twinge to her accent and upon asking, the girl admitted that she spent more time in the states than in England. They talked for a bit and when James had actually started getting into the conversation and made it less one sided, the girl had looked at watch and swore.

"Shit. I'm very late." She stood up, shrugging on her leather jacket. "Nice meeting you..."

"James." He offered his hand and she shook it.

Then taking a scrap piece of paper and a pen from her satchel, she scribbled down a note and slipped it into his shirt pocket. Then she left, not before giving him a wink.

James ran a hand through his dark hair and took the note, it was her number and written in a cursive hand with a green gel pen, read:

You look like you know how to have a good time. Call me when you're not in a mood

\- Lily.

He finished off his lager and got up. Throwing his jacket on, he decided that he was the perfect amount of late to stroll back into work. Just as he was about to Leave, James eyes caught Lily's (empty) bottle of red wine, the edges lipstick stained and allowed himself a smirk.


End file.
